Dad

If there were a pie chart that divided up my time over one week, the exploded spice that emphasizes the best moment would be watching movie with my wife.

We watched the British drama film The Thing with Feathers this Friday, before I read the original novella Grief Is the Thing with Feathers during weekend. That's a story of a newly widowed father of two boys. A heavy story of grief. 

Regardless of how you feel about the author Max Porter's writing, he does certainly know how to evoke the fear and embarrassment of fathers like me. Once upon a time, the father, before he lost his wife in the book, had to bring his children to go sledging in the park when his wife fell sick with flu. Both sons whinged because their toes were aching. The father felt embarrassed to be exposed as wholly reliant on his wife. He didn't know where their hats were. He couldn't get their mittens. He forgot to ask his sons put on Wellington boots.  

My goodness, the story sounds familiar. Let me be clear. I'm no better. I remember years ago receiving an email from my daughter's primary school teacher reminding the daddy to properly dress a kid when the temperature was lower than 10 degrees. There are few gaffes more embarrassing than a dad's oversight that leads to a kid being "detained" in classroom when other classmates are playing outdoor during recess.

Uh-oh.